...and dreams are dreams

i like my dreams. i have good dreams. my dreams are often better than my waking life. they are, however, almost ridiculously nonsensical, detailed, and involved, to the point where words could not adequately explain.

i don't generally have recurring dreams, apart from one in high school about mr. miyagi and myself shopping for peach taffeta party dresses, and then stealing an empty baby carriage. but i had one last month that i wish i would have again. i wish it would happen in real life.

at the beginning, i broke my winnie-the-pooh cup, one of the disney ones with the extra layer of plastic, and the water and glitter and plastic flowers in between. i couldn't clean it all up, because the plastic flowers seemed to disappear when they hit the ground. the middle of the dream is too complicated and random, so i will omit.

but the end, ah, the end. my fingertips felt funny. sore and stiff. i looked closely and saw tiny tiny black dots on them, just very faintly. then i squeezed my finger, like the lady at the doctor's office does when you're little, to squeeze out a drop of blood after they've pricked you. and the dots swelled and turned into tiny black balls that popped out the end of my fingers. and when they fell onto the ground, they turned into the plastic yellow flowers from my cup.

now why can't something that wonderful really happen?